The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(20)

‘That’s the decision made then.’ O’Neil pointed over his shoulder to the kitchen beyond. ‘Coffee should still be warm.’

‘Thanks. You want more?’

‘Thought you’d never ask.’ She held up her empty cup.

Ryan took it to the kitchen bench, poured a refill for her and one for him. Seconds later he returned, keen to know more about their drive north and what she had in mind to do when they got there. He dragged his chair closer to hers and sat down. Trying his level best to ignore the effect her perfume was having on his senses, he asked if the documentation for all four incidents was already on HOLMES.

‘Yup, all here on the system. I want to do this right, Ryan. We are the lead team on this investigation now. So it’s ears open and mouths shut when talking to detectives who’ve been involved thus far. If that changes down the line, I’ll let you know.’

‘We might miss local knowledge that way.’

‘It’s a chance I’m prepared to take. Many a case has failed on misinformation. We’re not investigating colleagues here. Working in complaints has taught me that if you show your hand, they’ll be queuing up to put their own spin on things. You know the score. Coppers can’t stop themselves. Even the crap ones like to think they’re Columbo. If you listen to their theories, it’ll influence your thinking. What I need from you is a fresh pair of eyes. That way we start with a blank canvas, no preconceived ideas. We make our own minds up whether to accept or reject information that comes our way.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘Good. Any questions?’

‘Yeah, what did Price have to say last night?’ The call had come in from the Chief Constable as they were about to retire. She’d waved him off to bed and he was curious to know if she had any update on Kenmore.

‘Not much. There was enough blood at the scene to suggest a severed artery. I expect we’ll have that confirmed this afternoon. First responders found the scene disturbed: paw prints in the blood, trace evidence of dog hair investigators matched with that found at the judge’s home. The dog was found weeks later, spotted by a tenant on a neighbouring estate. The animal was hungry, a nervous wreck, but otherwise healthy. It’s with Mrs Forbes until the family decide what to do with it.’

Ryan was relieved to hear it. ‘They got nothing from house-to-house?’

O’Neil shook her head. ‘The investigating team also spoke to anyone and everyone who happened upon the scene when it was being examined. It generated a lot of enquiries that took them nowhere. As you pointed out yesterday, Kenmore is a popular area at any time of year. Asking locals if they’d seen strangers hanging about was hopeless. Detectives working the case did everything they possibly could to find Trevathan. They combed the area, checked hospitals in a fifty-mile radius, dragged the river and sent divers down with zero results. His body found its way to the surface all by itself.’

‘That’s not a lot to show for two months’ work,’ Ryan said.

‘Yeah, well, Police Scotland were in the driving seat then,’ O’Neil said. ‘Now it’s our turn.’





10


Having broken a woman’s heart, Ryan and O’Neil were on the road before nine. They didn’t discuss Mrs Fraser’s reaction to the death of her son: the frail body wracked with sobs, the sheer disbelief that she’d seen him for the last time beyond a clinical viewing room at the morgue. Shattered didn’t come close to describing it. The woman was utterly devastated, her life in ruins, the damage irreparable.

Most coppers knew what it felt like to knock on the door and deliver a death message. Few knew what went on when the door closed again. Ryan did. He caught Mrs Fraser before she hit the deck, sat with her until the Family Liaison Officer arrived, tried to comfort her. Like all families bereaved by homicide, the woman was inconsolable. He couldn’t tell her that he’d been there too. What possible good would it have done?

Losing a loved one to murder united no one.

Sensitive to his personal situation, O’Neil had offered to tell Mrs Fraser herself. He argued but she insisted, and when it was done they skirted a subject too painful for both of them. That didn’t mean that fallen colleagues – Jack Fenwick and Ryan’s father – weren’t uppermost in their minds.

Avoidance strategies weren’t always negative.

O’Neil had her foot to the floor, hell-bent on distancing herself from the trauma of the past hour in the shortest time possible. As they left the city behind, her mobile rang, the call buying Ryan time to process what had gone on in the house.

‘O’Neil.’

‘Police Scotland, ma’am – DC Turner. My guv’nor asked me to call and let you know that Maxwell’s Temple is bolted, secured and closed to visitors. The key is with police in Aberfeldy – the station that covers Perth and Kinross Highland.’

‘Address?’

‘Twenty-seven Kenmore Street, ma’am. PH15 2BL.’

‘Hold on.’ O’Neil repeated the address for Ryan’s benefit. ‘Can you let them know to expect me?’

‘Will do, ma’am.’

‘Appreciate it.’ O’Neil gave an ETA and hung up.

She glanced at Ryan.

He punched the postcode into the satnav and saved it as a destination, keeping them on track for the morgue. ‘I hope the scene provides some answers.’